


Memories

by AraniaDraws (AraniaArt), JerichoTM



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dimension Travel, M/M, except maybe Nat, literally they're all pretty much normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaDraws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerichoTM/pseuds/JerichoTM
Summary: Steve walks in on what he thought was a burglary. What he ended up with was someone he didn't mind getting to know.(aka Winter Soldier!Bucky meets No Power Modern!Steve through undetermined circumstances)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written by SirenMYT  
> Artwork by AraniaArt

There were approximately five sensory memories that shaped Steve’s life.

One, the sound of the phone ringing the only day he saw his mother cry—the day they found out his father had been hit by an IED that had subsequently killed him and anyone in the surrounding radius of the blast.

Two, the yelling of the Landlord and the pain in his arm as he was being yanked away from the only home he had ever known.

Three, the taste of metal on his tongue and the swelling that prevented vision in his right eye, but did nothing to prevent him from seeing the boy that had chased away the bullies and taken him to the nurse (the tongue lashing he got from his mother, downtrodden and tired as she was, was not so pleasant).

Four, the pain in his chest and his arms waking up in the hospital and knowing his best friend wasn’t in the bed next to him despite the tarps giving a weak semblance of privacy.

Five, the smell of burning incense as his mother was read her final rites and put to rest. He shed no tears that day and couldn’t bring himself to cry any day after.

Looking at where he was now, it was hard to understand how he had gotten to the point that he had. Some days he thought it was luck, other days he was quickly reminded of what his “luck” had brought.

He’d gotten himself through high school by the skin of his teeth, battling survivors guilt and depression throughout most of his teenage life.

How he ended up with a job for one of the big titan companies of the comic world could have only been a miracle (or maybe a crazy coincidence, Steve was more convinced of that than anything).

And to be the penciller of the long time Captain America franchise was just… he owed too much to his friend and manager for securing him the job.

 “I’ll have the draft sent in by tomorrow morning… Jesus Christ Nat, why do you do this _every month_ ,” he complained, barely keeping from dropping the phone while sorting the many finished pages that had somehow come perfectly out of order.

_“Because you wouldn’t be on time if I didn’t do this_ every time _,”_ came the sardonic remark, utterly unimpressed with his complaining.

“I keep to my time frame!” 

The silence was very indicative of how well the other knew him.

_“Just get it done. Or I’ll come down and kill you.”_

The line went dead and Steve let out a groan when he eyed the script again. He was so used to his friend’s threats that it barely phased him anymore. At most, she would drag him out of bed and force him out of the apartment when the time came.

His apartment was truly tiny. One bedroom and one bath, no living room and no kitchen. Despite the potential for clutter, he had so few possessions that the area ended up looking empty. Captain America paraphernalia speckled his walls and shelves. Most pictures of friends of family were carefully kept out of sight and out of mind in a lock box under the bed. A sole picture of his mom in her old nurse garb somehow made the room look that much emptier.

He didn’t mind it, not really, not anymore. His job kept him plenty busy and given time he could probably afford a better place.

The latest edition was more focused on the relationship with the Captain and the Winter Soldier, so it was drastically less dynamic than most issues that had focused a great deal on action.

Steve had been ecstatic to hear about the issue, in all honesty. Sometimes he felt like people forgot that Captain America and the Winter Soldier were based on real, actual people who served in World War II (and that they’d died within days of the other, but Steve wasn’t going there, _he was not_ ).  

He had only just finished the draft at two in the morning and he was feeling the pain in his back. Pushing himself too hard was a distinct trait of his, and with his generally shitty health it landed him in the hospital every once in a while. It was a literal pain, but he got through it.

The number of sticky notes on the drawing board reminding him of the due dates glared at him, calling him out on his procrastination and mocking him for his exhaustion. Typically, he had the time to scan and email the pages, but this time he had to turn it in while being physically present due to some major changes that _apparently_ couldn’t be explained by email or video.

The only thing he particularly liked about his apartment was how close his bed was to everything and therefore, how easy it was to crash after a particularly painful day.

No sooner had he fallen asleep was he woken by the annoying ringing of his phone. Steve nearly screamed when he found that it was _five in the damn morning_ when he’d only gone to bed at two. The only one crazy enough to wake him up at this time was of course…

_“Are you up?”_

Rolling over in his bed, curling into his blankets, he barely kept himself from falling back asleep.

“I’m up.” He rubbed at his eyes, but refused to leave the comfort of his freshly laundered sheets quite yet.

“ _Did you know that there are twenty major arteries in the body?”_

“I don’t know what I’d do without your thinly veiled threats every morning, Nat.”

_“You’re welcome, sunshine. Now get your ass out of bed or I’ll send Clint.”_

Almost instantly he was up, feet firmly planted on the ground. He almost stumbled with how quickly he forced himself to get up. The last time he hadn’t listened, there was a literal guy in full swat uniform hovering over him. There were no signs of entry (he had checked _everywhere_ after the chuckling bastard had left) and Steve had laid in bed for a straight minute just blinking, not having the capacity to scream. All-nighters broke his brain to the point that survival was typically shifted to number two on his need to _be_ list, number one being sleep.

_“Sam and I are meeting you for breakfast in twenty minutes and then you’ve got the meeting right after.”_

“I thought Sam was in DC? Working at the VA up there?” Turning on speaker, he placed the cell phone on the bed as he began to get dressed.

“ _He’s got a new job at Stark Industries.”_

Steve let out a shocked noise, nearly tripping over his jeans in his hurry to pull them on.

“Stark _what_? How did he land a job like that?”

_“You know Stark’s got ties to military and air force, even after the Iron Man stunt he pulled.”_

While they continued to speak, Steve threw on his shirt (ironically, with Captain America’s shield printed). He barely remembered to put on his leather jacket before running out the door.

“I think you mean, _because_ of the Iron Man stunt. I swear, after that press conference they were going to toss the guy into a pool of sharks,” Steve commented honestly.

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line, though she offered no counter.

The annoying part about living in New York was that no matter what time of day, in the area he lived, there were always _people,_ which meant being shoved around because Steve was literally one hundred pounds rounded up.

“I’ll see you at Sandra’s in a minute. Get me a large salted caramel latte pleaseeee,” he whined, maneuvering around the select part of the crowd that refused to get out of his way.

“ _Disgusting_ ,” she teased.

And then it happened.

It started out small, barely felt. Some pebbles shook and some paused in their confusion. The second vibration hit much harder and had people wobbling: parents pulled their children close to them and others stumbled into each other for lack of better option.

The third was the most devastating. There was a ringing in the air that could’ve been a malfunction in Steve’s hearing aid, but highly unlikely as the tremors continued and people continued to _scream_.

Steve let out a pained cry as he fell to the ground, feeling the weight of the woman that had been standing stock still only a second ago on his arms. She’d grabbed at his arm in an instinctual attempt to stay upright.

As soon as it started, it was over, leaving panic and chaos in it’s wake.                       

There came a stuttering apology from the women who quickly realized that she was still holding onto Steve’s arm. When he was finally able to get up, the first thing he noticed was the soreness of his knees and the pain in his hands, his phone still clutched in a death grip in one of them. The next was the cries of the people on the side walk, and even more from the street.

Steve let out a gasp at the chaos. Cars had crashed into each other and some had swerved into poles and parked vehicles. Miraculously, no one on the side walk had been injured, but there were many in the cars that were still calling out for help and just crying in general.

He practically jumped a few cars in order to get to an older woman in a small blue Sedan.

When he heard the police sirens, he backed off some, helping the ones he’d gotten out of their cars to the sidewalk to be smothered by passerbys.

He immediately dialed Nat’s number the moment he remembered that she was probably still at the bakery (in a building that sometimes looked too old for it’s own good). The fear he felt for her was far from minimal; logically, he knew that she was capable of taking care of herself in disaster situations, but he also knew that she was also _human_ no matter what façade she decided to wear day by day. A hit to the head did most people in.

It took barely a second for the line to pick up.

“ _Rogers, what the_ hell,” she growled, background noise muffling her voice slightly. She sounded exhausted, but nothing gave away the possibility of injury.

“Are you ok,” he questioned, hissing slightly when he brushed a bruised (but not bleeding) hand against the rough material of his clothing.

“ _I’m fine. You?”_

“Nothing broken. Don’t worry about me! Are you at the bakery? I’ll— “

“ _Steve the place is trashed. Go home.”_

Steve blanched in disbelief. “You’re joking. Now? I still have – “

“ _\- a meeting in less than an hour, depending on if it’s been canceled or not. And it probably_ has been. _You’ll be safer at home. No use staying in the street._ ”

Something seemed… off about the way she said it. Like she wasn’t telling him something.

He continued to scan the crowd, unsure of what to make of the clutter and disorder around him. The people on the sidewalks seemed to be paralyzed as they watched paramedics and police drag injured out of their cars. A few, he saw, dragged themselves (and some, their children) away from the tragedy.

“ _Steve!_ ”

“What aren’t you telling me?” He felt more and more useless the longer he stood around, hearing people _scream_ and _cry_ around him.

“Steve!”

A hand reached out of seemingly nowhere to grab his shoulder and shove him away from the crowds. Immediately, he moved to sucker punch the bastard, only to stop just in time to catch the other’s face.

“Sam?” He looked up in confusion.

“Get your skinny butt home, _now_ ,” he said, looking as tense and off as Natasha had sounded. Sam’s eyes darted around, assessing the situation with trained precision.

“People are dying, Sam. I can’t just—“ Steve attempted to push past him, but was easily held back by the much stronger man.

“You can and you will. You can’t do anything here, not with...”

Sam didn’t have to finished the sentence for Steve to understand. And didn’t that just feel like a knee to the gut. The worse part was that he was right. Steve could _feel_ his lungs working hard in a way that he almost didn’t have the ability to withstand. A few more minutes and he’d be on the floor choking on the dust.

Sam seemed sorry to say it, looked like he hated it. But he didn’t back down no matter how much Steve glared.

“You literally look like one of those lizards my ma’s cat likes to bring in the house,” Sam said, both eyebrows coming up in emphasis and holding his hands out as if to say ‘see’.

Steve continued to glare at his friend, abet weakly. He knew what he looked like; the rings under his eyes quite well emphasized the grooves in his cheeks. He really did feel tired, and after the terror he just went through, slightly faint.

“I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Sam made a face. “Which is what I’m trying to prevent. Go _home_ and _sleep._ I’ll keep you updated on the situation if that’ll make you feel better, ok?”

Steve nodded after another moment of hesitation.

“Ok, now get your bag before someone snatches it.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. Because his _job._

“Oh god _my deadline_ ,” he cried out, looking up at Sam in horror. The other couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Steve was moving before Sam could say anything. His bag was where he’d dropped it in the ruckus. Miraculously, it wasn’t taken by anyone feeling opportunistic.

He looked back only once to see Sam no longer paying attention to him. In fact, he could see Sam’s back disappearing as he merged into the crowd. He furrowed his eyebrows as irritation set in. The blonde had no time to ponder because he was reminded to leave when police began approaching a few people. Some didn’t look quite so friendly.

His pace was as brisk as he could manage with his asthma, shoulders tucked and hands curled up into the sleeves of his jacket. Steve felt chilled to the bone, and not just from the early morning cold. There was just something in the air that screamed at him, telling him that there was something _wrong_ : something wrong about the way Natasha clamped up so quickly, and how agitated Sam had been when he’d seen him. The bigger part of him said that they had been dealing with the after effects of what had just happened, but an extremely small part of him kept repeating that there was something they didn’t want him to know, something they didn’t trust him with.

Steve forced himself to push the intrusive thoughts aside before they could spiral.

He silently wished for the caramel goodness that he’d asked of Natasha before things had gotten out of control. There was no chance in hell of him going back to sleep with how high strung he was. He sighed, tugging at the scarf around his neck so they’d cover his frozen lips. A regrettably ungloved hand reached for his keys and unlocked the door.

The first thing he noticed was the shadow blocking the small window next to the bed. Steve froze and then noticed that the shadow was almost literally a shadow because he was wearing _black Kevlar body armor._

The blood drained from his face quickly and suddenly the arm that he’d been drawing for a week straight was in focus. The exact detail and movement of the metal plating taunted him. For a moment, he thought he’d actually gone insane.

“What,” he choked out, eyes bugging out slightly. He was very tempted to run right out of the door.

But, then, that would leave the stranger in the most accurate Winter Soldier cosplay he’d _ever_ seen in his sorry life alone in Steve’s room; With all of his worldly belongings. And, just, _no_.

The other moved much faster than Steve could react. The blonde was face planted against the closed door before he could utter a word, arms twisted behind his back in a way that made Steve hiss in pain.

It was then that Steve realized that the intruder was actually quite big. As in, more than a foot taller and could definitely take Steve down in a split second if he wanted to. It was enough motivation to stay still in the other’s grasp despite feeling anger and humiliation bubbling in his gut.

“What the hell do you want,” Steve growled, words slightly distorted from the way his face was planted against the wood.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed together, part confusion and part annoyance as he took in the questions. Was this guy serious?

“What do you mean ‘where are you’? I’m not the one breaking into some poor shmuck’s apartment.” He was swiftly punished for his snark by the tightening of the other’s grip on Steve’s arms. To add insult to injury, the guy was only using one of his arms to hold him still.

“What is this?”

The arm that wasn’t holding Steve still was shoving the latest volume of the Winter Soldier arc into his line of sight.

“It’s a Captain America comic?”

“Why am I on the cover?”

“ _Excuse you?_ Buddy, I don’t know what’s your problem, but you’re not a comic book character.”

The “crazy guy”, as Steve had dubbed him, went silent for a moment. And then abruptly let go of him, pulling Steve away from the only reasonable exit (and he didn’t feel like diving off of the fourth floor of a building, thank you very much).

Now that he could see the guy closely, and finally notice the man’s face, the first thing that struck him was how much he wanted to draw his _eyes_. They were the most tragically beautiful things he’d seen outside of animated film. And then the ridiculous face paint.

“Um.”

Said eyes were focused entirely on him, metal arm (oh hell that looked real) still holding a death grip on the border of the comic book.

“Who are you,” the armored man demanded, not moving any closer, but looking like he would give anything to reach over and rip out Steve’s spine.

“Um,” he repeated, unsure of what he could tell the other without compromising himself or any of his friends. “I’m, Steve? I live here. I work for –” Steve pointed in the general direction of the comic paraphernalia on his shelves, “ – Marvel. I draw Captain America comics.”

Steve was sure that there was disbelief in the other’s expression, but he didn’t fluently read resting bitch face so it may have been projection.

“Look, if you just leave I won’t say anything to anyone –“

“You look like him.”

Steve blanched slightly. He waited for elaboration.

“Steve Rogers.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, unwilling to offer an explanation; unwilling to say that he was _named_ after the guy; unwilling to say that his mother had long claimed relations that, despite the evidence, Steve was in no hurry to believe.

“So I’ve been told,” he remarked instead.

And suddenly it seemed like someone had cut the strings to mystery guy’s arms and he pretty much collapsed.

“Oh my god,” Steve exclaimed, rushing over to the man who suddenly looked much less imposing and more like a kicked puppy.

He flinched at Steve’s touch and Steve felt something ache in his chest despite having felt imminent death only moments ago. Steve understood that this guy hadn’t broken in to kill him, or to rob him, and seemed just as baffled (if not more so) as the supposed victim of the whole situation.

“Hey, I can’t lift you, muscle man. You gotta help me here.” He carefully placed one hand against the thick material of his right arm and the other on the material of the other.

“Oh my god, that’s real metal,” he whispered in disbelief, but continued to lift.

Steve was eventually able to get the metal armed man onto his bed (oh god _he wished_ it had been another circumstance because the guy was _built_ ) before slumping onto the ground, breathing as deeply and slowly as he could manage.

“He is not James Barnes. He can’t be James Barnes,” he muttered to himself, as if trying to assure himself of the notion that everything in his life was still normal.

That fell apart quite quickly when he took another look at his face. Sure, there was some beard that wasn’t there before and his hair was more like the comics portrayal of him as the Winter Soldier, but the man in Steve’s bed _looked_ like he could be James Barnes. Or a relative.

In the way that Steve could be related to Steve Rogers.

Problem was, the guy looked like hell. And Steve always had a bad habit of picking up scared things that were more likely to bite him on the hand than cuddle it.

“I’m exhausted. I’m really exhausted and it’s causing me to hallucinate.”

Second problem was that he was just staring at Steve with his sad, tragic eyes. Like he didn’t know what was going on, or what to do, and he was depending on Steve for _something_ and it was getting harder for Steve to convince himself that this was all in his head.

And then he started to talk.

“Best friends since childhood Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country. “

It sounded like he was quoting something that Steve didn’t recognize. A book or a movie that Steve hadn’t watched. The facts were there, but the description was off.

“’Best friends’ huh. Haven’t heard that description since the letters came out.”

The James Barnes look alike narrowed his eyes, but didn’t question it, instead sitting up.

“Really, who are you,” Steve asked.

“They called me the asset. You’re Steve.”

“You sound unsure.”

The soldier offered no counter, simply shrugging as if that was an answer in itself.

“Ok, could you tell me why you’re in my apartment?”

The confused frown was back, and he shook his head.

“Does that mean you don’t know or – “

“I was in an enemy base… it was going to explode. There was an earthquake just before the bomb detonated and a flash of light…” he drifted off, seemingly lost in his own head as he attempted to process his own side of events.

Steve rubbed his hands against his thighs as he attempted to process what the other was saying. Was it possible that maybe the other was a soldier or veteran (though that _was_ some fancy tech strapped to his belt) and had simply… wandered or something like that? It could be a case of spotty memory or maybe a flashback. But even with any of those explanations there were still about a few hundred questions left to be answered.

“We had an earthquake not too long so I’m pretty sure you’re in the same place.”

“Where the hell am I?” He questioned again. Whatever shock he seemed to have been in seemed to have let off somewhat and allowed for the use of his vocal chords.

“New York City,” he answered gently, beginning to realize that maybe he should’ve taken a much more carefu approach from the start.  

“I _get_ that ok, but I know only one person with your face and he’s a lot bigger than you. So, I don’t see how this,” he gestured towards Steve’s figure, “is possible.”

“You’re probably confused. You probably lost some time somewhere in between the explosion and coming here.”

“I’d think I would’ve known if I’d lost time,” he replied, looking even more confused than before, but not like Steve was telling him something that was outside the realm of possibilities.

Steve was starting to realize that this guy had been gotten in a not so good way by something or someone. His eyes were truly expressive in a way that Steve had only ever seen in Natasha. And he knew that she was the result of some truly messed up stuff (child abuse was too weak of a word to explain what had been done to her). He didn’t know how much of her was in this guy, but it was enough to have him worried.

“Look, I’m not going to call you ‘asset’, ok? It’s demeaning. Do you have another name?”

After a moment of silence, he replied. “Bucky.”

“Your parents really loved their historical figures didn’t they.” Steve gave a smile as he got up slowly, not just for the benefit of the soldier, but also for his very sore knees.

“My ma blessed me with a lot of things, but good health was not one of them,” he joked, rubbing at the irritated skin. The bruises still stung something fine, but he didn’t think that there was anything he could do but wait at this point. Nothing was severe enough for peroxide or bandages.

“Look, I can call my friend, Sam. He can find out what happened to your team or find your family – “

“I don’t have anything.”

Steve couldn’t help but look at the man in disbelief. He wore some of the most expensive military gear Steve had ever seen, and he had nothing. Steve couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

“That can’t be true.”

Steve couldn’t deal with the look on Bucky’s face.

“Well, I think I’ll call Sam anyway,” he said, going for the phone he dropped minutes ago (or had it been longer).

When Sam refused to pick up, Steve called Natasha. Steve explained the situation and received an ear full for not calling the cops (or calling one of them sooner). It didn’t help when he pointed out that if Bucky had wanted to kill him, that Steve would have been long dead.

“And bring some casual clothes for the guy, _please_. He’s literally dressed in military gear with weapons and everything.”

The line was littered with quite a few more threats to his more delicate bits, but he could tell by the lack of complaint towards the request that she would do it.

“He’s… big.” He eyed Bucky who was still sitting on his bed, looking very tense and on edge.

“Body builder or beer belly big.”

“Body Builder.”

When Steve finally got the chance to hang up the phone, he turned back to his unwitting guest.

“Nat is bringing over clothes so, let’s get you out of this, ok?”

Bucky looked like he was going to resist, but said nothing. After a minute of silence, he began disarming (and that was an alarming amount of weaponry on his bed). Once most of the knives and guns were removed from his person, Bucky continued to undo the buckles and remove the upper armor before moving to his belt.

 “No,” Steve yelled, face beaming red. “Please leave the pants on until Nat leaves,” he pled for his own sanity.

Bucky couldn’t have looked more confused, but went with the request and instead removed his shirt. Steve let out a strangled noise when he caught sight of the abs and biceps.

The fingers of Bucky’s organic hand twitched slightly, the lack of weapons on his body unsettling him like someone mildly addicted to sweets. His eyes shifted along the cracks of the apartment walls and to the items on the shelves.

Steve’s eyes shifted similarly, but in contrast to the way Bucky surveyed the area, it was to avoid looking at the half naked man on _his bed_.

“Well now I see why you haven’t kicked him out. Didn’t realize scarred and traumatized was your type.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed and he tensed in a way that he hadn’t with Steve. Natasha replied by raising an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to say something.

“Natasha, please.” Steve gestured towards the plastic bag in her hand.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day,” she said, walking over to the bed and dumping the pile of clothes next to the knives and guns without blinking an eye.

“I can take care of myself. Look, he’s got a bit of a memory problem. He goes by the name ‘Bucky’. You think you could get Sam to check up on him? See if he’s got any family?”

Natasha sat on the chair in front of the drawing table, crossing her legs. Her eyes never once strayed from Bucky, and vice versa. Both were stone cold and assessing.

“Bucky huh?” The red head turned her eyes back to Steve and suddenly he was wishing it wasn’t.

The exhaustion was finally starting to set in and his eye sight had been blurring slightly every so often. The signs of brain shut down were imminent. Despite it, Steve remained standing and instead focused on not falling.

“I’ll tell Sam about your friend. In the meantime, does he have somewhere to stay?”

“He kind of showed up in my apartment out of nowhere, so no not that I know of.”

“And you’re not going to throw him out because you are literally a saint. Got it.”

She rose from her seat, stretching as if she hadn’t sat down less than a minute ago. Steve could tell that she was glancing at the metal arm ever so often, but it didn’t surprise him to see that she didn’t ask about it. Both her and Sam worked with vets (Natasha less so, but Sam enlisted her help with some hard to crack cases) so she knew better than to ask an active duty soldier about his injury or his prosthetic, especially when he was unfamiliar with her.

“I’m leaving. If you kill him I will come after you, do you understand?” She pointed at Bucky who looked less that phased. Natasha seemed pleased.

“Glad to see you concerned for my safety,” Steve drawled.

“Get him to wash his face!”

Steve rolled his eyes, ignoring the wink Natasha threw his way.

“Forget her, please,” Steve begged, rubbing his palms against his eyes.

The sound of the rustling plastic made him look back up to see Bucky digging into the bag and pulling out a soft green cashmere shirt, followed by skinny jeans that looked a size smaller than necessary.

“She didn’t recognize me,” Bucky said, eyes firmly planted on the shirt, turning it inside out as if he’d find something in it.

“Have you met?”

“I thought we did,” he muttered before pulling on the shirt to find it fit snug against his chest and loose against his stomach. The sleeves were slightly longer than necessary, but Bucky seemed content with it.

“I think I have a sleeping bag somewhere in my closet. I can sleep in that and— “

“No. You’re sleeping on the bed.”

If that wasn’t the most intensive emotional response Steve had seen out of the soldier in the whole time he’d known him, may lightning strike him. He was prepared to fight against the decision, but the slight vibration of his phone stopped him.

Checking it, he realized, with a growing dread that it was a message from the particular branch that Steve worked for. Suddenly, it was as if all the stress he’d been feeling before Natasha’s arrival was back with a bang.

“’All employee deadlines remain intact.’ Are you _kidding_ me,” he growled, stiffening significantly, momentarily forgetting about the jumpy man in front of him.

Surprisingly, there was no reaction from the other who simply examined the pants with the same detail he’d examined the shirt, paying extra attention to the seams.

“Those jerks. I’m going to ring their _ears_.”

He was up, collecting his bag, and rushing out of the door before his new roommate could say anything (not that he would’ve anyway, probably).


	2. Chapter 2

The meeting was hell and quite literally had nothing to do with his actual job. It was more directed towards the writers and editors. Apparently, they’d updated some systems and changed a few emails. All in all, it was dull and unproductive.

Steve had spent most of the meeting spacing out or looking around the room with dead eyes.

Coming out of the meeting room, he was met with Brock Rumlow, a writer from a different division (Steve thanked the upper management gods for never having to work with him again). Said man had a polite grin on his face as he confronted Steve. If he didn’t know the other well enough, Steve would’ve thought it was genuine.

“Hey Steve! Want to get something to eat?”

Steve made his expression carefully blank.

“One condition: you drop dead.”

Rumlow looked like he was going to start pouting had Steve not shoved past him and made sure to close the elevator before the other could get in.

Some of his team laughed at the somewhat dramatic exit.

“He still bothering you? Really?” Sharon smirked, leaning against the glass elevator while the others snickered. 

“Yes and _yes_. Like I haven’t given him a chance and he didn’t act like a _dick_.”

“Flirting with the waitress and trying to catch a glimpse up her skirt; so classy.”

Steve gave a playful smirk. “I’ll see you guys later, I got a date with some food and my bed.”

Coming out of the building, he was met with the buzz of the city that he’d grown up in. It was hard to imagine what had occurred only hours ago. It looked as if the earthquake hadn’t happened at all.

Days later, it was as if the event itself was nonexistent.

“The earthquake was wide spread and this area got hit particularly hard. How is no one talking about it?”

He crawled onto his bed, patting the creases down and dropping his phone. His laptop was dug out from under the bed and unlocked while he listened to Bucky chew on his sandwich from where the sleeping bag was spread underneath him.

“Only this area,” Bucky repeated.  

“Mhm,” he hummed as he looked through the news feed. “I’m not seeing anything on it either. Not even local news is reporting on it,” he said, confused at the lack of coverage.

“Where I come from that usually means a cover up.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky had become remarkably less stone-like the longer he was in Steve’s presence (or maybe it was the other way around).

“’Where you come from’,” Steve mocked and Bucky shoved at his thigh. “Stop talking like you’re not from here.”

“I might as well not be,” Bucky said, looking somewhat contrite for reasons Steve couldn’t pin down.

The last few days had been interesting. Sam had called with updates, as promised, and there were no deaths as far as the hospitals were talking. There were still some in the ICU, but most looked to be recovering quite well. He’d also contacted about the mystery roommate situation (because Natasha was a blabber mouth).

There was no one in the database that looked like Bucky (and the arm was an honest to god giveaway) except for the obviously dead James B. Barnes. It was honestly the most annoying thing ever. Especially when Sam had continued to say that there was literally nothing he could do.

And that still left Bucky with no ID and no family or friends (barring Steve, but he didn’t count). Steve kept trying to hook him up with the little diner that needed some help for the night shift, but Bucky showed hesitation towards even leaving the apartment.

“How many of those comics did you write?”

“Write? I didn’t write any of them.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose slightly, as if he didn’t believe it. Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m serious! The writer gives me the script and I draw based on what’s given to me. Our teams are very interlaced so every once in a while we check up on each other and make changes accordingly.”

“But you have some input on the story?”

“Some. I haven’t been on very long. I’ve only had some more serious input in the latest arc.”

“The Winter Soldier.”

Something sounded off when he said it, as if becoming detached at the mention of the name.

“Ya. I actually designed the current outfit. You should’ve seen the way he looked in earlier issues. Talk about impractical and hideous.” He sat up and turned until he was facing Bucky. “They actually thought they could get away with putting him in a revamped version of the 1940s costume, and not the historically accurate one, can you believe that?”

Bucky looked very close to laughing, lips pinched. “So, the outfit? The arm?”

“Officially approved by Marvel studios,” Steve dodged, smiling wide; however, his smile began to wilt when he saw Bucky eyeing the compartment under the drawing board.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

Bucky ignored him and went for it. He pulled on the handle and eyed the many sketch books, all work related (he knew to hide his older art). The poor guy looked like he didn’t know where to start. He settled for pulling out the one from the bottom of the lowest shelf.

“Of course you’d pick that one,” Steve muttered, pretending to paying attention to his laptop when he was actually watching Bucky anxiously.

His earlier sketch books for Marvel had more varied and unfinished sketches than any of his other books. It was when he was still hashing out his art style for the series.

“Who’s this?”

And then there was _that_ sketch.

The color quickly drained from Steve’s face and he moved to snatch the sketch book from his friend’s hand. It took every bit of control he had to stop himself and remain on the bed. Steve looked pained as he eyed the upside-down picture drawn in dull charcoal from his position.

There was nothing to be ashamed of; but, it didn’t mean that there was no pain when he thought about it.

“He’s—James,” he said, haltingly.

“James?”

“He was a childhood friend.” Steve couldn’t keep himself from snatching the notebook away from Bucky after the admittance, feeling the scarred tissue on his foot itch at the reminder.

“You draw him quite a bit,” he remarked, looking somewhat guilty for bringing up what was obviously a sore subject.

Steve didn’t both replying, instead replacing the sketch book back into the cabinet. After a moment of calming his nerved, he told Bucky that it was fine, patting his shoulder.

“Look, about the job— “  

“I can’t get the job without a proper ID or SSN.”

“Now that’s a big fat lie. I’ve got a friend that works for the local diner. She’d be willing to pay under the table.”

Bucky didn’t look too surprised at the suggestion, instead seemed resigned.

“You’ve got no excuse metal man. If you’re living here, you’re going to start pulling your weight.”

Wearing one of Steve’s oversized jackets (that actually fit on the brute), Bucky went out and successfully made an impression on the older owner of the small restaurant, who took to him quickly.

The first time Steve saw him in the uniform, with the apron and respectable dress shirt, he nearly lost it laughing, remembering how they first met.

“Dirt covering your face with some gunk over your eyes.”

“It’s a legitimate tactic.”

“It made you look like a racoon.”

It took a long time for Bucky to stop looking every which way when coming out of the apartment, like he was still expecting to be jumped. It took even longer for him to stop going bug eyed whenever someone mentioned how he looked like the James Barnes.

When the lease for the studio was up, Steve packed his minimal clothes and items into three boxes and walked straight into a large one bedroom, one bathroom apartment with gorgeous flooring and a small kitchen. The paint didn’t crack, nor was the furniture broken and bitten.

With time, Bucky changed. The wider the space became, the more he smiled, the more he laughed. There was a distinct Brooklyn accent that came out more and more often along with lingo that firmly belonged to the 40s and 50s but made him seem charming beyond words (and never failed to make Steve blush). When he first cut his hair, Steve had choked slightly, something caught his throat at how similar he looked to James.

But James, like the Bucky who’d died in the 40s, had died so very long ago. So Steve thought nothing of it (no matter how much his heart ached, and even that faded with time).

Sam and Bucky became close confidants (troublemakers, the pair of them). Natasha could never bring himself to be near him for too long. The only time Steve was able to pry an excuse out of her was when she was on her fifth shot of vodka and admitted that ‘he was too much like her’. Likeness bred likeness, and Natasha was terrified of backsliding into the person she used to be before the VA, before the United States had interfered.

It took four months for Steve to get the nerve to ask him out. Bucky didn’t immediately understand, and left Steve in the kitchen by himself trying not to hit his head against the table. After a few seconds, Steve heard glass crashing against the floor and couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Bucky treated him like he was the most fragile piece of porcelain in the set. The arm was, sure, something to worry about when they got around to more physical activities, but he wanted to actually _feel_ his boyfriend hold him back. It took a few days of aggressive cuddling for the guy to figure it out.

It wasn’t until they began pushing together their beds that Steve realized that Bucky still had nightmares, but was the type to freeze up so even in the same room Steve never knew about how bad they got.

Most nights Steve had to talk him down. On better nights he could wrap his thin arms around him and whisper assurances into his ear until Bucky either woke up or settled. On the less than good nights, he had to sit in the corner of the room while he spoke.

It broke Steve to see the one he loved in so much pain, but he never pushed for Bucky’s past, and in turn Bucky was never inclined to talk about it.

Because on some days Steve couldn’t bring himself to get up in the morning and Bucky simply sat with him on those days, trying to get him to eat or drink something at certain intervals.

They were both fractured in their own ways, but together they were better. Not healed or cured, but better.

More time passed, and they settled into their relationship slowly. The brainless attraction replaced itself with a deep fondness that continued to grow.

Months went by, and then years. Secrets were revealed, and bonds fractured, but they remained together throughout. Looking back, Steve found it funny how he thought his life had revolved on nothing but misery.

Steve had approximately five sensory memories that shaped his life _today_.

First, the ache in his lungs after a long night of inhaling pencil shavings and charcoal, followed by the blanket wrapped around his shivering form. It was first time Bucky had willing touched him without flinching.

Second, the blinding lights from the carousel on their first date and the arm around his waist as they got off the cyclone and ran off to somewhere more private so Steve could throw up in peace. Steve hadn’t known that Bucky could laugh so hard.

Third, the wetness on his shoulder after Bucky told him about his past, about how a terrorist group had taken him prisoner and used his body for years (he left out hydra, left out seventy years, but never the murder). Steve held Bucky close to him with every bit of strength left in his body and even than it didn’t feel like enough.

Fourth, the pain in his chest when people wearing his face and his friend’s faces came and took Bucky away. The burning behind his eyes when he came back to an empty apartment trying not to think about the little black box he’d been hiding behind his old sketch books was severe, but he still didn’t cry.

And lastly, the most devastating of them all, the taste of his own tears on his lips when Bucky showed up on his doorstep with a duffel bag in one hand and a set of dog tags in the other.

Steve Rogers hadn’t cried since he was eight. He hadn't shed a tear since he was unintentionally abandoned by those he’d loved with everything in his weak heart.

It only fit to cry one last time when the one thing he loved most was returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware this may feel rushed, and I apologize. To clarify:  
> 1\. Yes, the Bucky of skinny!Steve's universe has been dead since they were both children.  
> 2\. Yes, the death was extremely traumatic and Steve has, in the past, been diagnosed with chronic depressive disorder  
> 3\. James and Bucky are separate entities. 
> 
> (I may have to write more to clarify ahhh)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so late on this oh god xD I'm so sorry my friend :((((((((


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